Datura

Datura

I know the dark; it is my work. Dusk is my doorway.
I’ve seen it all parade the damp cool earth within my reach.
Everything you’ve heard just might be true,
or not. Last night she kissed a beer goodbye, rolled off
the highway. I bear the thud and scrape of metal wings.

A boy blessed by prancing Indian ponies can’t see anything
at all. His girl is gone. He’ll never be famous.
A gun on his hip; It’s four a.m. the breaking hour
just when he’s breaking through the post-drug shaking.
Come on and fly.

All the oil will all be gone in the snap of a wave.
All the guns, all the grief.
I blessed him as he walked the track of the disappearing moon
through a few traveler clouds; he was waving goodbye.

The cat you see is nothing but a shadow.
And neither are you, if you think about it,
Or not. A mother leaves her dreams for the cry
of her feverish baby, An old man floats effortlessly
from the dark to the bright heaven of his people dancing
in gratitude for rain.

We’ll make it through--
A crown of fledglings sleeps in their adobe nest
made of river mud on the wall of a humble house
near the tracks in Isleta.

When dawn touches the trembling skin of earthliness
we will emerge from this realm of darkliness--
A rush of indigo through the white bloom of dawn,
Goodbye.

c Joy Harjo August 22-23, 2005 Albuquerque
A new poem (draft, mostly finished):